“Yes,” a third lady spoke. “And he has such a fine…form.”
The ladies laughed. Clarissa’s brows shot upward.
“Pity.” Clarissa recognized Mrs. Sartin’s voice. “But ladies, he is no longer available. It’s time for us to move on.”
“Oh,” the second spoke again. “How long can that innocent miss possibly hold his attention?”
“Hearts appreciates a woman of experience.” The third lady paused. “And you know he loves a woman who knows what she wants.”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Sartin agreed. “But he is attached now, and no matter what the lady’s experience, do not underestimate the power of romance.” A sad note sounded in her voice. “Don’t you remember what it was to be young and in love? Let us not begrudge him his happiness.”
Clarissa stared at the folds of the curtain, wanting to emerge with a glare and wishing, with equal furor, that she could disappear and unhear everything she had just heard.
With breath bated, she waited for the ladies to leave.
She disregarded the last part about love—utter nonsense. But what did the lady mean when she said Hearts appreciated women of experience—women who knew what they wanted?
Even after she returned to the ballroom, the question marinated in her mind, until fully infused with the desperate, unanswered I want.
At the end of the night, when Markham helped her down from the carriage, she gained his attention by whispering his name.
He inclined his head, so that he could hear, and waited for her to speak, brows slightly raised, eyes heedful and earnest.
Now she understood a rake’s appeal.
There was something thrilling about having a man look at you with such intensity.
“Your garden gate…” She swallowed. “Leave it open.”
Before he could argue, she swept up the stairs and into the Darlingtons’ hall.
Chapter Nine
Markham paced the length of his garden in the dark—a man locked in an internal struggle. Your garden gate. Leave it open. A simple request or the answer to the question, “How to destroy a man in six words?”
Though—he stopped pacing in front of the gate—he shouldn’t assume she had carnal intent, should he?
Perhaps Clarissa merely sought a private place where she could land her little foot someplace it would hurt, just as she’d threatened.
Or, perhaps she wished to talk. Or, dance. Or, play a game. Like spillikins.
Or, hot cockles.
He groaned.
He was not precisely destroyed.
Not yet.
But he would be.
He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her in the Hampton maze. Then, in his mind, he’d undressed her right in the middle of Berkeley Square. And tonight, well, there wasn’t any point in even thinking about tonight.
The glossy black door between his garden and the Darlingtons’ garden reflected the faint moonlight. The paint gleamed like the inky waters of the mythical underworld river Styx.
Apt, actually.
Because hell was exactly where Rayne would send him if he unlocked that door.
Then again, he did not need Rayne to send him to hell. Hell was a place of fear and heat and constant pain. A place of temptations deeply felt but forever denied. A place of suspension, of permanent indecision. Of remorse.
He was already there.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the gate.
“Markham?”
Her low whisper went straight to his cock. Pain, all right. Tight-balled bloody pressure. He made a fist; the key bit into his palm.
“Markham, are you there?”
The gate jostled back and forth.
“Foolish. Foolish. Foolish,” she whispered, bereft. “He doesn’t want me.”
He absolutely did.
He wanted her so badly, every muscle in his body strained in slow torment, like a rooted tree desperate for the sun.
She wasn’t foolish. Just reckless. And tempting an already raging fire.
Dead leaves rustled in the breeze. Or, had the rustle been the sound of her skirts? Walk away, my dear. Please.
He ignored his better side, squeezing his reply through a quickly closing throat. “I’m here.”
“Are you going to open the gate?” she asked.
“No.” This time, his better side won. “Opening the gate is a very bad idea.”
“Why?” she asked. “I just want to talk.”
See? All she wants to do is talk.
That inner voice sounded pleasant enough, but it had little horns and a pinchy little pitchfork. He pursed his lips.
“No.”
“You said you were my friend.”
Ah. An unexpected right hook to his stomach.
“I am your friend,” he said through his teeth. “But talking will lead to kissing.” Yes, please. “And kissing will lead to embracing.” Oh, hell, yes. “And embracing will lead to…” He shivered; the hair on his inner thighs stood on end. “Well, you know.”
Silence, for a beat. “I don’t.”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t know what comes after the embracing. I want to know. And—and I think, well maybe it’s the not knowing that is driving me mad.”
Possible, though he doubted it. Because he knew what came next. And he was going mad, too. Yet her uncertainty raised a white flag. In a moment, he’d admit total and complete defeat. And open a very Stygian door.
Gently, he thudded his forehead against the gate.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Punishing myself.”
“Why?”
He gritted his teeth. “For all of this.”
“Don’t punish yourself,” she said. “Just open the gate. I promise you won’t regret letting me in.”
He would. He absolutely would. However, he could no longer walk away. If he ever could have walked away in the first place. He pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door popped. Just a sliver.
Clarissa peeked around the edge.
She’d abandoned the white velvet cape for a hooded cloak of dark wool. Which had been smart, but, oh—that velvet.
And, double oh, that sheer mull and the shimmering gold beneath.
“Well.” He sighed. “You had better come in.”
She moved, swift and silent, as if sneaking into gentlemen’s gardens was something commonplace. Which couldn’t be true for her if she did not know what came after embracing.
Again, he did know. And he’d invited her into his lair anyway, like some demon creature, knowing she would not return to Lady Darlington’s an innocent.
The question was—how much would she learn?
Were there gradations of ruination?
Did one start pure and wide-eyed and fall instantly into complete depravation?
And why, exactly, were perfectly natural urges considered depraved?
Shut it, pinchy little pitchfork.
He ran his hand through his hair, because if he didn’t, he would have been tempted to do something else with that hand. For instance, draw Clarissa into an intimate embrace. And not just because she was close and delightfully woman-scented, but because something told him bringing her inside the circle of his arms was the only thing that would make everything solid again.
“You wanted to talk?” he asked.
She nodded. “I wanted to ask a question.”
“Yes?”
One gloved hand appeared from beneath her cloak. She rested it on his arm and looked up. “What is ‘a woman of experience’?”
Inwardly, he groaned again. “I think you can imagine the answer.”
She considered. “Yes, you’re right. I can imagine an answer but can’t imagine your answer.”
“My answer,” he repeated. She was more dangerous than he’d thought. And he’d already known she’d be lethal. “Why do you want to know my answer?”
“Don’t you know your answer?”
He did
n’t.
He just knew his answer would not conform. Just like he didn’t conform.
He did not properly fit any space he’d been expected to occupy. He never had. A boy at the foot of his bed, watching his mother suffocate and not understanding why no one else could see.
“Please, Markham.”
“I don’t want to give a flippant reply.”
He concentrated on the warmth beneath her tiny hand. How would he define a woman of experience?
A woman with extensive carnal knowledge?
What was extensive, then? Multiple men? A single man for multiple years?
Confound Clarissa—he was completely muddled.
She waited, patient.
She’d never been one to rush silence with unnecessary words. He returned to parsing. He’d promised honesty, after all.
What did he know? He knew the simple procreative act didn’t make a woman—or a man, for that matter—experienced. Although, he supposed penetration—even if involuntary—had been enough to brand many women with that word…and worse.
Which was why he rejected that definition.
Such unyieldingly harsh descriptions implied all carnal acts were lewd.
And they weren’t.
Some could be downright transportive—a breath amid the busyness of life, a brief space where all that mattered was fusion.
“A woman of experience,” he said slowly, “is a woman who has been awakened to pleasure. Who knows and understands her own desires.”
There. Defined. Relief.
She stepped closer.
Short-lived relief.
Her cloak entwined with his. “Is a man of experience a person who has been, as you say, awakened to pleasure?”
“Pleasure, yes,” he said hoarsely. “But not just taking…giving, too.” Taking pleasure could be solely self-indulgent.
“Are you as…” She paused. “Talented as they say at giving pleasure?”
Let me show you. He swallowed. “I try.”
“False humility?”
No. And not a false courtship, either.
“I’m not being humble. Not every man can please every woman. Nor vice versa, no matter what anyone says or believes. There has to be a certain…spark.”
“Like between you and Mrs. Sartin?”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying what Clarissa already knew. “But that spark has burned its course.”
“Do you and I have a spark?”
“Yes.” Hell, yes.
She worked her hand beneath his coat, then his waistcoat, and then rested it against his heart. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she pulled it entirely out from beneath his ribs. Already, it beat between them, almost disembodied.
“I think I understand,” she said.
“You do?”
She nodded. “Something odd happens when we touch.”
“Odd?”
“I want. I’m not even sure what, but I want.” She turned her face to the side and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Can you give me what I want?”
Heaven help him. “No.”
“You can’t?”
Only a man who would spend all day admiring his own cock would think he could. “There isn’t a simple answer to your want—nor anyone else’s.”
“What can you answer, then?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? How could he answer her I want?
Only one way—a joining, a recognition of their sameness, an acknowledgment of the very differences that had brought them into the night.
“I want, too.”
Not exactly an answer, but the best he could give.
She took his hand. In the center of his palm she drew a heart. That heart was a lock—one perfect hook meeting its mirror.
“Take me inside, Markham.”
Thud, thud, thud sounded in his ears, as if wrestling to be released from the slipknot she’d drawn. Heart’s heartbeat, loud enough to drown away all his argument.
Loud enough to force the choice that would alter both their lives’ course.
“Yes,” he answered. “Come inside.”
No invitation to bed had ever left him more ashamed.
Nor more excited.
…
Markham moved through the darkness with his usual ease, though now he seemed like a creature born to the night. Or—Clarissa considered—like a man with a great deal of experience ushering lovers inside from his garden into his home.
Was that why she’d wanted to mark him as her own?
To burn a heart into his hand?
But envy had no place in this assignation. Nor did possession. She hadn’t come here to make him hers, even if she had that power.
She had come here to learn.
The equation was simple. Markham had experience. She did not. With Markham’s help, she intended to remedy her ignorance. The only question left was how far would Markham go? Would she return tonight understanding pleasure? Would she return no longer a maiden?
She hated how much information she lacked—information jealously guarded by men, many of whom never bothered to perceive nor understand the power they held. She intended to seize that information. To embrace understanding and the power it conveyed.
Markham located the tinderbox somewhere at the far end of what she assumed was the scullery. He lit a single candle. The light proffered was dim. Just enough to make out the faint outline of furniture and cast short shadows across Markham’s serious features.
Ah, poor man.
She hadn’t expected him to look so tortured. Surely, he hadn’t lost sleep over his other lovers’ loss of virtue—or, as she preferred to think of it—initiation into experience.
But his reticence was gratifying, in a way. She touched his cheek. Insulting to his other lovers, but charmingly chivalrous.
She had no more—or less—value than any woman he’d bedded before, only the intention to lift herself up onto a plateau so she could better see.
“The stairs are steep,” he whispered. “They creak, but don’t worry. No one will come.”
Well, that sounded ominous. “Why?”
“Because,”—he rapped on the side of the stairs—“I warn them not to.”
She stifled a laugh. Gallant, indeed.
He scowled.
“I apologize.” She attempted to appear contrite.
He sent her a glance that said he wasn’t buying her contrition and then motioned for her to go first. They climbed the stairs, a unified train, while he held the candle high. His heat, his very presence, left every sense tingling. She hadn’t even known she could tingle in her back.
Information.
Extraordinary information.
Marvelous information.
What other unexplored parts could produce the same feelings?
He opened a door from the stairwell, and they entered a dark chamber.
“Keep going,” he whispered against her ear.
A waterfall of tingles spilled down her spine.
Ah, yes. That.
That was the kind of experience she was seeking. Later, she’d ask him to whisper something else against her ear. Preferably something more inspiring than keep going.
Although—she lifted her brows—keep going had potential, depending on what one was encouraging.
They moved silently through an apparently empty chamber. Dressing room? Countess’s bedchamber? She couldn’t see anything but the candle. Right now, all she could do was trust.
So she did.
Markham had promised not to hurt her. She believed him.
She could unveil all her ignorance as well as all her greedy thirst; Markham wouldn’t turn away or laugh. She could pour out the contents of her heart; he would carefully sift. He was that way. Like a pond whose surface ripples did not reveal the deep stillness within.
No, Markham would not hurt her.
She only hoped she would not hurt him.
But how could she hurt Markham? He was the one with ex
perience. He was the one who knew what was about to happen. She hadn’t his power.
Not yet.
He opened a second door. The scent of bergamot grew strong as they entered. He closed the door behind them. The lock squealed as he pushed it into place. The room was wood paneled. Tables, chairs, and dressers were scattered about, but her eyes fixed on the large, canopied bed anchoring its center.
“Is this your bedchamber?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered without elaboration.
He set the candle down on a table and moved to close his curtains. He removed his cloak and then lit his wall sconces one by one.
She’d rather he didn’t. She preferred shadow.
In shadow, she didn’t have to remember other women had shared his bed. In shadow, she could forget the parting that eventually must come. Somewhere beyond Markham’s crimson curtains and dark wood paneling was a world of consequences. For now, Clarissa did not care to consider consequences.
Well, not all of them.
She wanted one consequence quite badly—the consequence of the heat in Markham’s gaze—the answer to the burning beneath her skin.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he returned. “What do you think?”
“Very masculine.” Though not at all masculine in the cold, stark manner of her father’s home. The effect here was warm. Heavy. Solid. Real. “I like it.”
He smiled an endearingly lopsided smile. “Thank you.”
“The smell.” She inhaled. “Is it bergamot?”
He indicated a bottle on the table. “Mostly. James Floris of Jermyn Street created the scent for me.”
She picked up the bottle. The liquid was thick, and it clung to the glass as she swirled—not cologne, but oil. She uncorked the bottle and sniffed—that was the scent, all right.
“Impressive.” She set down the oil. “But it is not the cologne that makes me heady, is it? It’s you.”
He searched her eyes. “Do I leave you heady?”
She smiled. “Of course you do. You know your effect. You are fully aware of how you move. Your confidence, your ease…it’s why they call you Hearts, isn’t it?”
He blushed. “We shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
His reticence was going to be a problem. “My dear Markham, I’ve developed this odd notion that only I can rule my heart and mind.”
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 11